


Ērādere

by Cannabis



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Porn, Blood and Gore, Creepy, Creepy Hannibal, Enchanted and Terrified, Fear Play, Fear of Death, Gore, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Mental Disintegration, Other, Psychic Violence, Psychological Horror, Sexual Violence, So Wrong It's Right, Survival Horror, What Have I Done, Will and Mental Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:01:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannabis/pseuds/Cannabis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has been running, he couldn't count the days if he wanted to. Running however, can only get you so far when every corner is alive with madness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ērādere

**Author's Note:**

> I am fairly certain I understand the trail of thoughts that brought out this story, but the outcome was rather disastrous. If you are easily alarmed, please step away now. If not, please remember this is a story, and do not read it before bed.
> 
> Ērādere is Latin for 'Erase.'

Will. Graham.

 

He had travelled across the globe, searching almost desperately for the pieces of himself that had been shattered or cast aside. Years had passed, to recollect the memories that had dripped from his cochlea and lifted the colour from his now pallid skin. However, he had not always been this much in decline.

 

He had collected over his travels, three pieces of a gem meshed together now, that were irreplaceable in his mind. He viewed it currently, outside a reputable tea shop, cup resting gently in his right hand, and the clouds above grey and quivering in suspense of the oncoming rain. An applaudable equality in the addendum of the blanched world he had remained.

 

Each piece was a beautiful thing, though small, and he could not let them go once they had slipped into his fingers. Every inch of it felt different, though it was geometrically the same on every curve and corner. The glimmer of light that struck it shared a new colour each turn to his watchful eye. Here, was the only vividness he could see anymore. He almost wished not to hide the beauty in his coat, away from such refinement he was in-content, and his mood became garish in his want to see it. The air around him seemed to dampen with a musty stink as he slipped it away from analysis, the perfection silenced by the wary touch of reality. The reality that he was alone, without guide or a place to call his own. The tea cup empty, he stood, no tarrying in reminiscence, always moving on. He mulled many things as he carried his body forward, an altogether familiar spear jarring up his spine.

 

Every person that he came in contact with had, at one time, touched his spirit; but it was his own spirit that dashed them to the earth. Or so he had thought for many years. It was only with recollection of the frame of those times, that he began to realize the reality of what had begun to follow him. In despair, he now garred endlessly to flee it. He dared not many simple pleasures to himself; he held only a meagre housing to his name, something easily abandoned if he chose to flee and ventured out very rarely, spare clothes, cash from before he had become the object of sleepless nights.

 

For some reason today, he had wandered to the tea shop, the morning paper shoved under his door had been continuously vowing of it's illustriousness. He had risked it, drawn there quite easily and had been most pleased by the wondrous aroma and taste; only wishing for a shot of alcohol that could lift that rosy buzz to his head, but he wouldn't go that far lest his senses dull too quickly, a hindrance to his flight. To escape a shadow, one must become a shadow. Light will only attract the monster closer and blind the intended victim to their approach. Weakness should not be an addition to that.

 

It was a cruel thing, that followed. Once, a swear to himself, he had spotted it beside a cornerstone through heavy rain, a stature of something deranged eyeing him from a wary distance. A kiss of knowing beading sweat down his back. He had paced off, he had blinked past the dream into the shadow of an alley, he had knocked over indefinite things and turned corners until he recognized the rain pelting him and puddles dancing up his legs. He had been afraid since. Or _more_ afraid, he should think. For _it_ was here again, and he had too long to run. He had no one close to lure it away, no one close to protect him from the duress.

 

 _ **Escape, escape,**_ churned in his skull as his hand fished into his pocket to sense that gentle glow. It laced him with no comfort with the shadow tracing his moves, stepping nearer and nearer behind. He dared not venture a glance, though he knew _it_ knew he was being tracked; goaded into moving to and from his net of safety. His teeth chattered, but he dared not scream, revealing the distance between the monster and his very being. His feet slammed the cobblestone the wariness of it's direction drew ever closer and he felt his very faculties begin to shatter. On the corner turn toward his net, the shadow was wading ever closer, the breath only a pace behind and the sounds of it were patterned in screams and laughter. But he was there at the door, his keys out and he dared a look. There was nothing.

 

Nothing, until he turned once more to the lock--

 

A brush of air raised the hair on his neck, he fumbled with the chamber, and he could feel the arms, or whatever they were, slip around his torso, freezing him in intense shock and fear. He only broke free when he heard the key turn, the heavy thud of the lock returning his senses to life. He was barrelling into his shelter like a madman and kicking the door closed, leaving the spectre and rain in abstinence.

 

The door slammed behind him and he fell against it, bottom lip tugged in, eyes pressed shut and shaking from head to toe. He stuttered out a laugh, till it shook loose from his throat into a malconstructed sob. Rain dripped onto his hands as he covered his face to hide from the darkness of his own making and he remained curled there for what felt like endless hours of voiceless tears and vacancy of thought.

 

Then he remembered. His right hand shakily delving into the wet fabric of his pocket, bringing forth the beautifully collected gem that he held so dear. The fear ebbed albeit slow, then departed in a whiff. In his own comforting darkness he could feel the warmth of colour against his skin, the shadow growing silent on the other side of the door, a whispering echo as it drifted away. He had lost the volition to move, so there he fell asleep, trembling in chill and lightened distress, the crystal pressed fondly to his lips.

 

He couldn't run forever. It ran in his head, a ploce that he was incapable of discouraging.

 

Not long after the tea shop visit, it had laughed as it chased him again, and without looking he could hear the screams echoing from himself in time with the creature's impacting steps. He had slammed the door, glancing only a shred of the thing behind him as it made no change in pace until it collided with the structure, easily shattering the hinges. He realized in locomotion that he never had a barricade, it had only let him win, only let him _think_ he had won. His legs went lame with fear as the shadow entered so steadily, the door creaking lifelessly behind it and he began to crawl helplessly into the second room, his voice hopelessly departed, the only sound of unreverberant thudding steps, the whistling of the exultant wind through the threshold, the resonance of his heart.

 

Something pressed down onto his ankles, ceasing his movement, and he feared for his end. For the first time, he was compelled, trembling so, he faired a look at whatever it had become. A familiar argot stirred from the chamber space of it's throat as his eyes fell upon the thing before him.

 

A gaurdant beast stood there, the shape was motionless, but a mistral shape at it's feet were grasping his legs, then ahead of his notion of movement, over him, touching moist kisses to his throat and laps to his cheeks. His escape fully denied as it pinned him to the floor he had once ventured to for safety.

 

He could feel it pulling tight at his hair, gnawing at his mentum and lips in libertine judgement. His blood dripped loose from the occasionally deep scrap into his flesh. The claws, raked at the veins in his neck determined to free the pulse beneath that was all too ready to take flight from his body, but they only tempted, sending fearful waves through him as the weaved. It was empowering and beautiful, grasping heavily around his entirety but he thrashed for freedom. It had already taken so much from him before, he couldn't let it take the last of him now.

 

Shadows danced around them, whispers, darkening the finite clarity as they passed without any awareness throughout the heat of his memory. Lightning outside did not cut them away, did not alter the entity that deluded him. Mutterings, then soft laughter sent the shapes skittering up the walls, where curious antlered fixtures hung then he had seen only once before, and the ceiling awakening to curl inward, easy, in a constricting spiral that took each of the dancers into it's wicked maw.

 

 _No, no, he couldn't do it._ He couldn't reach through the weight that suffocated his spirit. The burning in his chest setting his nerves ablaze and he felt the being draw nearer into him, biting lazily at his depleted strength. His soul was turning black, like ink and bile flooding through his humours. His fear was dissipating, but so was every fibre of his consciousness in tow.

 

 _Pray, leave me at least that._ He hoped as the thing began to scratch new holes into his body. Infecting, and whittling away his own sense of self. _Leave me my sanity, don't touch what can't be returned._ The black contagion spreading like a slipstream, for every inch he denied, it would trace even farther into his persona.

 

 _Please._ He knew begging wouldn't save him. Wouldn't carve him a path to safety. For what he knew, mendicancy only seemed to entice it further, twisting under his ribs and catching hold of his heart. His somesthesia was beguiling and denying him even as lithesome desire cracked his ribs open and free scattering them in pieces, his lungs emptying of their last distraction by the unwelcome expanse of space which they were bestowed.

 

In his naked finality, he attempted to gulp air, as the creature mouthed warm around his cock like an embouchure, leaving him twitching with raw tepefaction by the perfect heat that emanated from inside that hollow, black thing. The discourse from this wight was still indecipherable to his ears, but the hum up his belly was enrapturing and he let his head fall back, intent to emit a sound in grateful restitution, anything at all as he writhed in frabjous selection. There was no one and nothing that he could cry out for, his exigent closing gasps frolicking aimlessly into the ever stagnating air, yet swallowed up in the appreciative body of the tremulous shade.

 

Denial became unachievable as the creature set it's fingers gently up his face, scarring his cheeks as the hands roamed into his hair once more. They seemed to pause, as if savouring in it's own euphoria before fracturing his skull, and erasing the last piece of him that could be recognized.

 

Or so he thought. Within that mounting intensity and deliquescent state, in the scent of copper and taste of iron, he lifted the crystal that he so greedily had treasured from what remained of his cavity. The shade had eased and fluxed into the shape of a man, one that he recognized from years past and he knew.

 

As he pressed the gem to the shadow, an area above where it seized his flesh relentlessly, the being froze outright but a moment, then began to shudder. A yar lifted from it's throat as the glow sunk through it, and for the first time since he had attained it, he let the crystal pass from his fingertips, anticipation thudding harshly at the remains of muscle at his temples. He was an ending, lost in the shadow as it dispersed over him in smoke, leaving him bloodied and hard beneath it's mantle, his vision blurred and broken into spots.

 

“Will.” The long-familiar voice a distant thrum over him.

 

“Hannibal.” He had choked, unable to peel open his eyes, as an affectionate hand caressed his final pulses, which only ceased at the warm embrace round his heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

■ ■ ■ ■ ■ ■

 

 

A part of him wished in excess to leave Will to his demise, so endlessly pure and decadent in his final gropes for air, but again he denied him that pleasure. Leaving him to die would grant him peace of mind for all that he had done and _undone_ to himself. Or maybe it would not, as this existence, deadening beneath him, was prone to diving listlessly into guilt that he buried in the depths of his mind. Instead he remained straddled over Will's legs, without need to ponder his next moves.

 

He kissed the motionless atrium beneath him and longed so much to taste more of that gallant heart at the feeling of the wet, half conscious pulsation and the image of the ventricles bending beneath his mouth passed through his mind's eye, he leaned up in due haste and fluid motion to mend the broken man. From his own body he pulled bits and pieces to string Will back together, in a fraction of time, their bond was now a palatable discourse shaped together and he could feel the pulse through Will's veins along with his own. He massaged Will's heart and easily the vessels began pumping once more in proper stride.

 

Only when Will's shuttering breath came forth, did he find himself a moment to review the reparations he had done to the residuum of Will in the avarice of his destruction. These were found to be immaculately satisfying and much more easily repaired. Eyes traversed him, lighting first in confusion then in recognition.

 

“It was you all along.” Will gasped out, following the tilt of the other's head with acute precision. This made a smile linger behind Hannibal's eyes.

 

“No one else would know you so well. To find all your secret hideaways. Will.” He reached down to stroke the wounds dashed across his cheeks, a wince in return for the touch. “Only in your final moments did you realize who it was. Your revival is my gift to you.”

 

Will shuddered again at his stilled contact, not like before where he had been confused, uncertain of his incoming demise. The fright was no longer a dim echo coursing into his defences. The rain outside still heavily beating against the broken door.

 

It took time for Will to regain his bearings, or rather, what remained of them. He chose to stay for the longest of hours in the darkest corner of the second room, erasing the world around him and only breaking the looming scene when Hannibal returned from his goings and called out, offered him a home made meal or another more faithful tryst. Often the choice would be the latter, leaving Hannibal only half vexed for the night.

 

“The gift you gave me was out of your own selfishness.” Will groaned as Hannibal slide inside him in an easy motion. His arm latched, though comfortably slack, around Hannibal's shoulders as he rose with the even cadence. ”You couldn't-” but Hannibal cut him off with a kiss, and pushed himself deeper into Will's heat. “Be without me.” Will continued as their lips parted. Deep in his intuition, Will knew this was a lie, that he was running from. It was he who had so lost without this familiar darkness and as he gasped hotly against Hannibal's throat, he was suddenly empty.

 

“It seems a time passed that I have not remedied.” Hannibal breathed softly against Will's mouth before he traversed his chin and neck, tracking kisses down his sternum. Past the scars that were newly healed, a hovering brush across the belly he had opened once before, until he wrapped a hand gently around Will's leaking erection. Hannibal remembered the warm glow, only moments before he had woken to the last rattles of Will's life attempting to flee, but something earlier then that was what drove him forward.

 

“Hannibal-” Again he ceased his attempts, speech caught in the thread of desire as the warmth enveloped him, leaving a comfortable void in his mind with each timed stroke of tongue or lingering of teeth. He could feel the sting of sweat against his phantom wounds, and the air crudely catching in the ducts of his throat. Every gesture Hannibal made was aimed with purpose and insight. He looked down, though he knew he shouldn't have instantly, taking in the dark eyes that stared back at him, in all their intense necessity. He strained to withhold himself, crying out quickly as his only capable warning before he came, throbbing hot against Hannibal's relaxed mouth. A look of delight danced in Hannibal's eyes, as he rested his lips against the head of Will's cock, delicately tasting his ejaculate instead of receiving it tersely down his throat. “I shouldn't have warned you.” Will dropped his head back, gasping.

 

“Why not.” The reply was concisely flat as fingers curled evenly at the base of Will's shaft, holding him steadily against Hannibal's bottom lip.

 

“Your eye tease...should stop that...”He didn't return the prickling gaze this time, catching his breath with his eyes hitched closed.

 

“I don't think so.” A laugh, the vibration effectively teasing Will all the more. “Not when I get such a reaction.” He moved back up the length of Will's body, dragging his tongue partly up his chest then clamping a soft press of lips to the underside of Will's chin. A hum was returned in response.

 

“Will.” He had not moved from the space below Will's mentum, lips hovering above the Adam's apple of his delicious light.

 

“Hm.” Will replied with interest, but sensing the change in the air about him, grew wary of any prospective alteration. He felt a lingering caress at one of the newer scars on his side, a tickling press of fingers there, that had spelled his end only weeks ago. Then he saw the lingering shadow rising above him once more, obscuring Hannibal in liquid form and he knew his light was not enough to change the man so utterly.

 

The teeth sunk unexpectedly above the hollow of Will's throat, before he could cry out. He had failed to react and the darkness overwhelmed the room. If only he had known that Hannibal had replaced his own missing parts with shadow. Even after years of care, a single good could not save a man from himself, when more then a wisp of shadow remained.

 

Will gasped liquid this time, no longer able to feel his extremities, his senses abuzz with death. He managed to curve his fingers through the remains of Hannibal's hair, the inky cover yet to roll up over him completely. His last feeling rested on the softness there, even as the devil ripped through him freely, gorging on the remains of his desperately beating heart, blood pulsing endlessly into the achromatic organism.

 

Hannibal feasted on the sarcous before him, but found no taste in any other part besides the first beating organ he had consumed. One should know that his own taste is never quite so good compared to another. He did not regret bringing Will back, though using parts of himself had marred the taste of his body quite a bit. Nor did he regret the screaming pulse as it slipped down his throat. He dropped back on the floor beside Will, _former_ Will, and panted, the taste of him flowed throughout his core like a painless fire. He turned his shadow to the body and filled it once more, watching the new being scratch deep gouges in the wood flooring and gasp for air as it came to it's fresh life. It was beautiful even as it raged free from the room, out into the open land to devour. For in this end, he could always remember and he knew the lure would not leave him alone.

 

As Hannibal mused the taste of his beloved some evening past, having chosen a seat outside an esteemed tea shop to read the paper, a familiar tingle danced up his spine. He thought, in the reflection of his tea cup, he saw a shadow eyeing him from the other side of the street. When he turned his head, it was gone.

 

 _It must be that time again._ He thought, as he looked up pleasantly. The stories had been speaking so much of the death that loomed over the people from the shadow. The sky was devoid of colour that day, as it always was for him now and he watched the clouds waver with the intention of future downpour. A gentle wind was blowing, gathering leaves alongside his seating area. He finished his tea without a rush, then wiped the glass of his touch before setting it upon the paper. Knowing his urgent need to be home before the storm hit, he stood and began an even pace, for there was certainly a true gift waiting on his return.

 

Will Graham. The name no longer meant anything but a trophy he would always taste in his mind. The glow inside him, a passing gift, to woo that unforgiving iniquity.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I do hope you forgive my indulgence in other forms of wording and writing here.


End file.
